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by practicingmypurpose



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/practicingmypurpose/pseuds/practicingmypurpose
Summary: sight, smell, taste, sound, feel.
Relationships: Annie Edison/Jeff Winger
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





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**Author's Note:**

> uh hi I guess? I don't really write much anymore but i reread some of my old journal entries from when my girlfriend and I were doing long distance last year and got inspired. meeting your partner at the airport after extended time away do be dramatic lol.

1\. when you think about her, the image doesn’t sit right in your head. it floats around meaninglessly. if you try - really try - you can picture the building blocks that make up her face. the tip of her nose. the sharp slope of her cupid’s bow. the pink tinge to her cheeks. you can see all of these individually, but when you try to put it all together you get a stranger with annie’s features. it’s not her, not really, more like what you imagine a police sketch artist would maybe come up with, accurate enough, but there’s something missing. you think perhaps it’s the eyes. that’s one thing cameras never seem to be able to get right, no matter how good quality and overpriced they are. annie’s eyes have always managed to defy colour. blue-green-grey. even when you try your hardest, you can’t seem to make the image 3D. or maybe HD. who knows. anyways. you’d be lying if you said that the discovery that you can’t really picture her face anymore didn’t freak you out. you’ve always prided yourself on the sharpness of your mind, but going to greendale has definitely knocked a few brain cells down, and it’s not like you can ignore the aging process anymore. but it’s not like you don’t recognise her when you see her. when you see her, even over a shitty screen under the cheap, orange lighting in her apartment, and you close your eyes, the image of her, looking at you with that small, warm smile is imprinted on your brain. it’s only when the call is over, and you’re left staring at your tired reflection in the dirty black screen, that you realise the image of her is fuzzy in your head again. trying to remember her is like trying to put the pieces of a picasso painting together. no matter how hard you try, it’s just not exactly right.

but then you see her again - and she’s blurry and still not quite put together (if only that guy standing in front of her would MOVE already) but her face comes flooding back into memory again. a glossy portrait. sparkle in her defiant eyes.

* * *

2\. you smell her first. okay, that sounds bad, and when you tell her about it later she not-so-subtely sniffs the neckline of her shirt, but it’s not like that. it’s more like, in the dead coppery dust that permits the air of the DIA, the scent of anything remotely pleasant is naturally gonna come as a shock. your nose just kinda picks up on it. and that warm, cinnamon smell is unlike any other scent this side of the country. if you’re starving to death and someone somewhere is cooking the largest steak known to man, of course you’re gonna smell it before you see it, right?

cinnamon wraps around you just as she does, and when you lift her up and press your face into the crook of her neck you melt into the aroma of her skin. it doesn’t really smell of anything, not like he perfume does; it’s probably just some chemical pheromone thing, but all you know is that the scent - whatever it may or may not be - relaxes you more than any deep tissue massage ever could.

* * *

3\. you become acutely aware of the dryness of your own mouth, but when she leans up to kiss you, you find yourself endlessly grateful for the pack of gum you chain-chewed your way through while you were waiting. she kisses you and tastes overwhelmingly of vanilla, (okay, what’s with the food obsession all of a sudden?) like the expensive ice cream you used to get from wholefoods. and, okay, the moment isn’t entirely perfect, cause the lipgloss she’s wearing leaves a plastic-y aftertaste, but it’s far from the worst thing you’ve ever put in your mouth. she’s as sweet as you remembered, or maybe even more so, it’s hard to tell. to be honest, if it wasn’t for the lingering stickiness of the gloss transferred to your lips then the headrush you get immediately after kissing her would make you forget all about it. better to do it again, just in case. test the memory.

* * *

4\. she’s singing along - loudly - to taylor swift in the car journey home. and yeah, you might be in love with this girl but there’s no love on earth powerful enough to make you willingly put yourself through this for the two-hour-long journey back. when you turn it off, she gasps, but quickly uses the moment to launch into an acapella version of whatever faux-country song was just playing. “you just wanted to hear me sing? jeff, you’re so sweet!” you laugh at her and your cardboard chuckle comes out dry. crackly in juxtaposition to the softness of her - very much off-key - voice. she finishes the song after a minute or two, attempting an over-exaggerated trill at the end just because, and immediately launches into an anecdote about some seedy karaoke bar she and the other interns ended up at. “you’ll be surprised to hear that I was probably the best singer out of all of us.” she laughs after that, a high, twinkling thing, but you shake your head. hell, she might not be the best, but you’re almost a hundred percent sure you’d take listening to her voice every day over anything the radio could possibly offer. almost.

* * *

5\. her neck is hot. “not there.” she grabs your hand - kinda forcefully, actually - and moves it to the collar of her shirt. the top two buttons are already undone - when did you even do that? did she do it herself? - so it’s extra embarrassing when you fumble with it. your hands are sweaty, and the tip of your finger keeps sliding off the damn thing. it’s too finniky. she breaks a kiss with a laugh - god - and undoes the button herself. unable to move, your hand sits against her soft skin, useless. or maybe more like powerless. there’s something about the warmth of her skin that forces it there.

she finishes with her blouse (FINALLY), shrugs it off her shoulders. cocks her head and smiles. “please tell me you won’t need my help with the rest of it.” you shake your head. dumbly. “bit of performance anxiety never hurt anybody.” it’s not the kind of witty, effortless quip you always imagined you’d say in a situation like this, but when she cups your face you realise that at least her hands are kinda sweaty too, and it seems like you’re not the only one nervous here.

later, you comb your fingers through her hair - dry this time, let’s just say you’re a lot more relaxed now. it’s smooth like silk, falls through the cracks in your fingers like running water. she shifts where she lays on your chest, and warmth explodes underneath your skin. this. this feeling. it’s unlike any sensation you’ve felt before. paradise. heaven. nirvana.

when you tell her you love her, it’s because you really feel it. and from the look on her face when she says it back, there’s no doubt in your mind that she feels the same way.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh the formatting confuses me here so srry if there's any issues.


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